My Darling, Temptation
by bwayphantomrose
Summary: It was quite simple, really. She preferred Raoul during the day and Erik at night. It was as it should be.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: This story was previously published in conjunction with another member under another account several years ago, titled "Split". Since I am no longer in touch with her and it seems unlikely she will ever continue, I have decided to re-post and continue the story on my own account, heavily revised. Enjoy -**

Today, I have made my choice. I stand before the man I have chosen, and he smiles down upon me, his hand held out as I step the final step and face the priest before me.

Raoul stands in pale blue, a color I chose for him, a color that brings out the lighter blonde streaks in his hair and the creamy color of the ocean in his eyes. His hand is not nearly as sweaty as mine is, sheathed in white lace that covers my fingertips to my toes.

Everything is how I wanted it. It is just after midday, so that streams of spectacular light shine through the stained glass windows over the pews. The flowers I chose are pink and yellow, and the ribbons covering every decorative surface are a shiny hue of crystal white. With Raoul in his blue sailor's outfit, and I in the white dress, we are the perfect picture of cheeriness.

There is no darkness on my wedding day.

Everything is said appropriately. It is no less extravagant than the reading of line dictation before a performance. I smile at all the right words, hesitate with all the right emotions, look down when I must be the blushing bride. This has been a most anticipated role for quite some time now, and I am certain that I do not disappoint.

Afterwards, Raoul and I walk hand in hand down the aisle, while everyone claps and smiles. My audience consists almost completely of my husband's kin, who seem like foggy, far- away face whenever I approach them. We stay outside to celebrate, where a small tent has been put up for us. I dance, first with Raoul, and then with his father, and then with his niece, and then with his cousin… It seems that I dance with everyone in his family and every one of his friends, laughing and chatting all the while.

I bask in every minute of it, flushing when appropriate, telling all how happy and blessed I am, bubbling with romantic whims at every turn. Never once do I let my smile falter. For not even a second do I cease my exuberant energy.

When the sun starts to go down in the late afternoon, I seek out Raoul in the swarm of people, and he smiles at me gently. Together, we make our way down the path from the church while everyone cheers for us. At the edge of the path, where the burnished carriage is waiting for, he sweeps me off my feet and kisses me in front of everybody. He laughs, I laugh—everything is very gay and light. There is more cheering as he pushes me gently into the carriage. He darts in for another kiss and I giggle as appreciative whoops fill the air.

I know exactly where we are going. It is his cousin's guesthouse, slightly removed from the city limits of Paris. His cousin is in Germany for several months, and graciously offered us the place for as long as we would like it. In the carriage, I grow nervous. My silky dress makes my skin grow very warm. I watch Raoul's back and he continues to wave goodbye to the rest of his family, before hopping in beside me. The light romanticism of earlier is fading, and I do not want that. The sun is beginning to set. Shadows appear.

He turns to me at once, and he looks a little sheepish. "That was fun, was it not?"

I nod soundlessly.

He gives a brief chuckle before awkwardly clasping my hand in his own as the carriage starts to move. "You are truly a sight to behold, Christine. There was not a single soul present who could take his eyes off of you, and now you are mine to look at forever, as I am yours."

They are very pretty words, but I do not know how to respond to them. My eyes are frantically searching the horizon, desperate to catch the last rays of the sinking sun.

He follows me line of gaze and says, "The sky is very beautiful tonight."

I am growing more and more nervous with every passing moment. We are leaving the wedding, and I wish nothing more than to return and escape from the confines of this carriage.

"I will keep you safe in the darkness," Raoul murmurs, and he squeezes my fingers very lightly.

Again, I ignore him.

Perhaps Raoul really is just as nervous as I am, for he falls silent for the rest of the way, and my thoughts wander to everything I have heard about what is supposed to happen between a man and a woman. There are many things I have not considered about Raoul, and this seems like an incredibly grevious mistake to not have done before my wedding day. My valuable seconds tick away uselessly...

When we arrive, he holds the door open for me. We are, in every sense, the model of a young and anxious newlywed couple. Completely innocent in the ways of the flesh, we are only counting upon each other to take the final steps to consummate our marriage. These final thoughts as a young virgin bang around my head with every step I make.

This isn't how I wanted it. I wanted everything to stay deliriously light and domestic, and this is going down a path I am not thrilled to take.

I begin to babble mindlessly, trying to throw off this dreadful surge of nervousness. "What a pretty little area this is in! Did you know, I never, ever left the opera, not even when it was nice out? Sometimes the ballerinas would all go to the café together, but not I, I always stayed indoors and would read a book or practice my music! So there is so much of Paris that I have never even ventured to—like all these trees! Why, I've never seen so many trees before? Have you? Raoul? Raoul?"

He is approaching me carefully, his eyes serious. "I love you, Christine."

"I am nervous," I state blindly.

He only squeezes my shoulders in reply, leading me up the stairs, and I have no choice but to follow in fear. "Christine," he says in a very gentle voice. "I love you so much… My wife. This is not something to dread. "

I can barely smile at him, and although I am prepared for what is to happen next, I am not looking forward to it. Horrible stories that the opera girls have told me bounce around in my head. Is it going to hurt? Am I supposed to make noise? Will I have to touch it?

This is not how it should be.

He has been prepared as well, obviously… As he opens the door, the covers are pulled back. There is a faint scent of perfume lingering in the air. Dozens of soft pillows line the space between the bed and the wall. It is all very lovely, very comforting, and very unfamiliar.

My stomach turns over. I cannot decide if this is better or worse.

I wanted everything with Raoul to be blissfully sweet and light. This next, required step in our realtionship will go against everything I have hoped for us. This is something that adults do, and I do not want to be an adult with Raoul. I love him very much, and I am honored to be his wife... But I do not want this with him. My lack of sexuality was something I had always intended on keeping clean and pure - this terrible taint of darkness was what Raoul was supposed to be _protecting_ me from. From the fiery affairs and passionate dramas of the stories I cling to so strongly on stage, to the quiet, innocent life that I had kept myself sheltered in... No! This could not be the next step. I am not ready for this!

I do not wish to recall the next few hours—the first few hours of my time as a married woman. All I can say is that it was very uncomfortable, and most certainly painful. We spoke often, interrupting each other, to request that the other stop, or move… We did not continue for very long, but eventually rested, both staring at opposite sides of the room.

It was not like any of stories I had heard at the Opera, whether very terrible or very passionate - it was simply very... _dull. _I did not one thing that the girls had often spoke of doing with their lovers. Raoul did not one thing that they had often spoke of their lovers doing to them. I did not _feel_ anything that I had been expecting to feel. What was it, then, that we had done? I mourned the loss of my virginity.

I felt certain that what we had done was nothing more than the awkward bumbling of two children.

And it did not feel like love.

.


	2. Chapter 2

.

Tonight, I am wrapped up in a silky, black gown that is far too formal for something as simple as an evening walk. It was intended to be for the dinner that Raoul and I were to have together, but he has not been feeling well all day.

"I am so sorry," he says to me, acting terribly overdramatic, clutching my hand. "I have taken ill with something small, I am sure. Just give me… a good night's rest…"

I shush him comfortingly, and pull the covers over his shivering body. He truly does not look well at all. "I could bring you something up?" I offer, but he shakes his head violently.

"No food…" he says, looking clammy in the light. "Christine, I am so sorry—"

"Stop apologizing," I scold him, carefully kissing him on his forehead. "I want you to rest. I can eat by myself, and then I'll go for a walk on that trail you showed me Please do _not_ worry about me. Please." I do not mind coddling Raoul when he is feeling ill. This is the proper duty of a wife, and I am pleased to be a proper wife!

He smiles weakly. "Such a good little wife, taking care of her poor, sick husband!" He sighs wearily. "I am sure I will be feeling better by tomorrow."

I truly am not upset in any way, as I leave Raoul to his rest. Of course, I am saddened that he is ill and disappointed that he will not be joining me for dinner, but what is a wife to do when her husband is unwell? I have spent all day cooking the dinner for him, and basing it only around what he enjoyed—_I_ did not enjoy fish. In fact, I am a little pleased that now I would not have to eat it. I throw most of my prepared meal away, and end up snacking on a few chips and crackers from our lunch. Really, I am only stalling. I am waiting for night to fall.

There is something I must do.

You see, I made two very important promises to two very different men only a few days ago. One was to Raoul, and that was to be his lawfully wedded wife. It was easy promise to make, and one that I did not intend to go back on. I am now his wife, and I will be forevermore.

There was one more promise I made, only a few days before my wedding. I returned, and perhaps I shouldn't have. But Erik asked for an invitation to the wedding, and I was not about to deny him anything.

"_I am so pleased you gave this to me. You have made me very happy. And promise me one thing, Christine…"_

"_Anything."_

"_Will you return… just one more time? After your wedding? I just want to see… I must know if you are happy."_

"_Of course, Erik… Of course."_

Impossible to disobey!

I want to see him again.

I miss him.

It is not difficult to leave the little guesthouse, for Raoul is sound asleep when I make my way out. I decide against calling for a carriage, and instead I peacefully walk the mile or so to the Opera, pretending as though this is a simple house call on an old friend. I did not change out of my black silk dress.

When I arrive, I go quickly through the entrance he has shown me, and I painstakingly make my way down the familiar path. I do not know what I am doing, but something in my heart tells me it is the right thing to do. I do not know what I expect, but somehow I picture him waiting for me in the front room, eagerly anticipating this as much as I. However, I knock and knock, and there is no answer.

Discouraged, but not deterred, I go around back where I know there is a secret entrance in the stone. I wiggle with it, being careful not to ruin my gown and wrap, before sliding it into place and hearing the welcoming click of… _home_. I pretend as though this is not very sudden or strange, as if this has all been planned and I know exactly what I am doing.

Not much has changed as I step inside… except that it is cold. Very, very cold. I shiver and walk around the room, calling, "Erik?" as I did before.

How long did I wait for him? I cannot say, my mind was so full. Eventually, I cross over and pull a heavy quilt and sit on the divan, waiting for him…He will be here, I am sure. He will home for me, as I have come home for him. And then there is the sound of bells, and the door is opening.

He is tensed, and he is angry, perhaps looking for an intruder… When he catches sight of me, he freezes and watches me with wide eyes.

"Christine?" he says, as if he cannot believe it is really me.

I almost die at the sound of his voice, at the rush of familiar recognition pumping through my body. No other human being will utter my name with such a careful caress, as if every letter is formed simply for the beauty of his tone to express.

"As if you were to ever expect anyone else?" I try to say, but my voice cracks in odd places and I cannot stop the swooping sensations in my stomach as I watch his masked face change expression at my words, as if my voice causes as much frisson in him as it has done within me.

"Christine?" he repeats again.

"I came back," I whisper stupidly.

There is a pause.

He goes into motion then, closing the door and removing his jacket. He moves towards me gently, as if I am a wild animal he might scare off. "You…?" he says.

"I came back, for you," I say again, lifting my head to stare at him. "Like you wanted. After my… marriage."

His face grows dark. "Your marriage." he repeats.

Without thinking, without registering anything that has happened in the last ten seconds, I stretch out my hands eagerly and take his own. "How I've missed you!" I say impatiently. "How I've missed you so!"

For a moment, he only stares down at me, his eyes painfully blank. "Why have come back?" he asks mechanically. Although he does not embrace my hands, he also does not pull away.

I pause, confused. I thought that would be obvious. "I promised I would," I reply. "And I have missed you, and I had a chance, so I came…"

Not taking his eyes away from me, he slowly leads me back to the divan and sit me down. He kneels down next to me, our hands still clasped, and gently pushes my hair behind my ears. "My Christine," he says softly. "You have never broken your word to me."

"Never," I say proudly.

He only stares at me, and I can only stare back, my view undeterred by the darkened room, feasting my eyes upon him as if I might not ever get the opportunity to gaze at him with such clarity. Although this is not the same peacefulness that I felt with Raoul at our wedding, this is a whole other, highly desirable sense of comfort - as if part of me belongs here and I did not even realize how much it had been missing until I had returned.

Everything _fits_ in together here, like some giant jigsaw puzzle. I am happy with Raoul in the light, and I am happy with Erik in the dark. I knew I needed to return to be complete, but what will happen when I leave again?

"Then tell me," he says. "Are you happy?"

His voice is so masculine and lovely, and I smile at him, unable to help myself. "Oh, yes."

He looks down instantly, and I am afraid I have said something wrong.

"I am happy for you, then," he murmurs, barely audible. I hesitate, and then I lift up his chin with my finger. His eyes widen again at our contact. I cannot help but remember the way I felt when I kissed him, the way our lips touched like they would not be parted again. This makes my heart pound faster, and I ask myself, _what am I doing here?_

"You do not seem happy," I observe, and his eyes flash and duck down again.

"Of course I am happy for you," he says a bit stiffly. "How could I not be? When you are happy, I am happy." He waits for a moment, to be sure that I am not going to say anything. "And is your marriage… everything you thought it would be?"

Unexpectedly, I pull my hands away from him and look the other way. That was a personal question, and he is the one person I cannot lie to. I am afraid of looking at him now. I am afraid he will make me tell him the truth.

"Christine?" Erik probes, his long fingers wrapping around my arm and shoulder, forcing my body to turn towards him. "Why do you turn away from me?"

"I am not a good wife…" I mutter.

He stops and tilts his head. "How are you not a good wife?" he says quizzically. "You are everything… everything a man could want in a wife."

I blush, I cannot help it, and I feel as though the involuntary heat in my cheeks is a betrayal of Raoul.

"Everything with Raoul is happy," I say slowly. "We eat together, we laugh together, we go for walks every night. But… it's difficult for me…" I hesitate, the rest of my body growing warmer to match my face. "I mean, we are young… And I am very nervous about… the bedroom…" I trail off pathetically.

Erik's cool eyes have not moved from me. "That is common," he says brusquely. "You are young, and you will learn."

I hate to hear him talk about such things in reference to me. As if he has any more experience that I had…!

"It isn't exactly how I thought it would be," I muse, more to myself than him.

His face flickers with emotion, and then settles on looking disgruntled. "You know, sweet child, this is not something that you need to share with me."

Something inside of me bursts, a dreadful conclusion I had reached within myself not long after my fairy-tale wedding. "But it is! Because you're the only one who can understand! It's not what I wanted! It's not _passion!_ One week of marriage, and we've done it twice. Twice! Because I can't stand it, and he is so humiliated when I ask him to stop, and we can't enjoy it and I have no idea what to do! This is not what the lovers onstage sing about! This is not the romance that I always thought I would someday have! And yet it is... and I do not understand!"

I clutch at him and he carefully wraps his arms around me while I choke into his shoulder.

"You simply do not know what to expect," he says calmly, although I sense he is hiding something.

"I don't feel anything," I say flatly.

"You will."

"How would _you_ know?" I accuse, pulling back from him. "How many times have you pleasured a woman?"

His lip curls in defense. "I am much older than you and your husband, Christine. Deeds do not have to actually be performed for one to grasp the understanding of an action. I have felt lust, I daresay, more times that _you_ have, my little songbird."

I want to be angry at him, but it stirs a gentle part of my soul. It is exciting in ways I do not understand… "I do not _want_ Raoul to pleasure me. It feels sinful."

"It is a part of marriage."

"I don't like it. It ruins everything between us."

"You should have thought of this before you married him."

"Then what else was I to do?" I snap back. "Marry _you_? What would you do any differently…?" I drag my sentence off, and he is watching me with a sharp eye.

"Christine?" he says, and his voice is incredibly tight.

I shrug and try to look away, ignoring the pounding of my heart. Half of me cannot believe I am having this conversation with _Erik_, but then again, he has always been the one I have gone to in times of trouble... the one who has been there for me for every vice... the one who I have been the most intimate with in all the tender parts of my spirit.

"I miss you," I whisper unhelpfully.

"You should have realized that when you chose him!" he suddenly replies coldly, his hands tightening on me. "I was very clear, was I not? Choose him, or choose me - and you chose him! You choice was made. I cannot continue to be used by you like this while you belong to another man!"

"Used?" I repeat emptily. "You think I am using you, by keeping my word to return to you?"

"Yes, you return," he says bitterly. "But for the wrong reasons."

"And what would be the right reasons for returning to you?"

He does not say anything, and we sit in silence for a moment. Somehow, I am very comfortable in this place with Erik. It reminds me of when we first started singing together, before Raoul had even entered my life... How I enjoy being close to him again!

"I cannot believe you actually came back," he says aloud. "And yet, I was counting upon it. Waiting for it. Lost without that hope."

"Here I am," I say in a small voice, and I hold his hand a little tighter, squeezing it reassuringly.

"Christine, you have to leave."

"Sending me away again?" I ask unhappily.

"What do you want from me?" he asks abruptly, letting go of me. "Why are you here? Why come to me, after you are married to your handsome Raoul? What more is it that you ask of me?"

"I did not have a reason," I reply honestly. "I promised to come back, and I did. I would not break my word to you."

"But has this broken your word to Raoul?"

There is a brief second of silence before I answer. "He does not know that I am here," I say, brushing away the guilty feelings that arise in me, unbidden. I am doing nothing wrong...

"So you come to me when you encounter problems in your marriage that you did not expect," he suddenly says. "What do you expect of me?"

"I did not mean to come here to complain," I reply steadily.

"Of course not," he murmurs, reaching out to take my hand again. "You are here, and that's all the matters."

His hand is achingly familiar and is like touching a physical piece of memory from a forgotten childhood. Unwillingly, my mind wanders to what it would feel like if he perhaps reached out and touched me face... My memory flutters to him standing there, as I crossed over to him, crying and pathetic, reaching out to embrace him and suddenly it had seemed so right to find put my hand on his shoulder and lean up to see what it felt like to kiss him...

He is staring at my hand and maybe he is thinking of the exact same thing because effortlessly, we seem closer and I am struggling with myself...

It is strange to think I am a married woman now, and that my relationship with Erik cannot continue as it was before; as if, however, it had ever been planned to continue as before. Perhaps foolish me did not quite understand how a kiss could change absolutely everything.

But my mind wanders and I cannot help the way my stomach swooped when his voice spoke to me, or the way I shivered whenever he looked at me in the eyes. These stirrings brought back the memories of what the ballet girls often whispered as _passion_, and it spoke to me, the same way the star-crossed lovers of the stage sang to each other in their romance.

I am no longer a virgin, and unashamedly, I wonder what it would be like to _know_.

"Christine," he says at once, and I jump as if he has been reading every wretched path of my thoughts. "You have to go."

Bitterly, I draw my hand away, as if burned. "Of course," I say, and I rise to my feet.

Erik is behind me, staring at me with his calculating eyes. Perhaps he reads the guilt in my face. "Why did you come here?" he asks for a final time.

I do not have an answer.

But as I turn to leave, every nerve in my body protests as I feel like I am caught in some sort of magnetic wave as he approaches me and before anything is thought out, I rush to him and bury my head in his chest.

I come alive instantly, the hole in my chest that has been growing since the wedding, finally does not cause me pain. He responds immediately, his arms clutching me to him as if we have been waiting for this moment since the second I arrived. Biting my lip and holding back tears at this unfortunately unsurprising revelation, I can only hold him tighter, staring blankly over his shoulder and thinking frantically in my head, _please don't let me go. _His arms wrap around me perfectly, as if we were made for this particular duet, and I do not feel clumsy or uncomfortable as I so often do with Raoul. Instead, my chest brims with a sort of emotional upheaval that I can think of no words to describe.

I do not love Erik. I am happy, being the wife of Raoul de Chagny. It is how it should be - stable, content, very happy.

Yet there is something with Erik that moves me in a way that my husband does not. There is something that is almost terrifying in the way that my body seems to connect to him- _who would have thought this would have arisen from a kiss?_

My mind knows better. My heart remains safe out of the way. But my soul wonders what it would be like to have Erik reaching out for me... to have Erik trail his dead lips down the curves of my arms... if it was Erik who gazed at me in a way that made my heart skip several beats. Sex is still a mystery to me, the lure of it completely dampened by my awkwardness, but now my body is pulling towards him and I cannot stop imagining it, over and over and over again...

"I have to go," I repeat blindly as I release him and he steps away, making an odd movement as if to grab his chest, but thinking better of it at the last minute. "I am sorry for complaining to you, Erik... That was not my intention."

He stares at me, recovering nicely and crossing his arms. "You are a silly girl," he says quietly, and almost unnoticeably, his eyes flicker from my face to my darkened dress. Despite his calm demeanor, his eyes are crazy, uncontrollable. "And you ought to be careful."

I pretend to not know what he is talking about, ignoring the way I burn for him, and the obvious ways he burns for me. My heart is pounding still and parts of me feel tingly. I did not expect to have such a strong reaction to Erik, no matter my other thoughts. "I am not a silly girl, Erik." Childishly, almost comically as opposed to my other statement, I fling back, "And _you_ ought to be careful."

I think he snaps.

Suddenly, he is against me as he pushes me against the wall, and I do not protest in the slightest as I cling back onto him as if without separation, and I kiss him - straight on, unhindered, and desperate for his touch. In a single instance, I forget about Raoul entirely, and I can think of nothing but Erik, who is everywhere, who has always been everywhere, and he kisses me back, holding me so tightly that I think I will never be able to breathe again. He is in fervor against me, and I know that if I push forward, he will not be able to resist me.

"Why did you come here," he murmurs unwillingly against my lips, and I shiver as the sounds of his voice go straight through me. Ah, _this _is where this feeling belongs - down here here in the dark, in secret and in silence, not up in my marriage. Why should marriage be so ruined by something like this? This is to be shared with a lover, with someone who incites the sin within you. I do not want to share this sin with my husband. I do not want to taint him in that way.

"For you," I whisper brokenly, my hands at his face as I pull away the mask. "I came here for you."

It is strange, in that foggy moment, that I think things have never been clearer. I push him away from the wall as I stumble haphazardly towards the couch, pulling him with me - I know what to do and how to do it, and I have never felt more alive than in this moment as I feel every inch of my body alight with _passion_, with the addictive rush of emotions that I have longed for, all trapped within this one moment, between this one person and I. Truly, I did not plan this. I did not come down here with a scenario in mind, or with any sort of structure of a seduction. All I wanted was to see if I could find that missing element in my split world of light and dark—I have the light. Now I _need_ the dark.

"Christine, you must be insane," he whispers, and his voice has gone deliriously weak with desire. I am aflame for him, and I pull him down on top of me, my whole body crying out at the sensations I am experiencing, the weight of him on top of me and the way he breathes my name... This has spiraled too far for either of us to stop now.

I understand that Raoul is my husband.

But Erik and I were always meant to be lovers.

_._


	3. Chapter 3

.

I awake to far too many noises. Raoul is never this loud in the morning; he is always still sleeping when I arise. Rolling over a little, feeling as if I have not gotten enough sleep, I manage to open one eye to see above me.

The Angel of Music looks down upon me.

Everything comes back in a flash.

I sit up, clutching the covers to my chest. Erik materializes as he is, his mask firmly in place. His stare is a hard combination to absorb in my frantic state, a paradox of fire and ice. He is a different person - I do not know this Erik.

We stare at each other for the longest time. I watch as his mouth slowly releases the angry line, his posture relaxes, and his eyes only reflect dry horror.

"What have I done?" he whispers.

I feel surreal, like last night was some sort of dream that I could hardly remember. Nothing makes sense. I reach my hands towards him, and to my surprise, he comes on the bed to sit next to me. Before I can say anything, he has looked clinically into my eyes, then groped for my wrist.

"Erik?" I say uncertainly.

"Were you drunk?" he asked blackly. "Were you intoxicated? Were you threatened? Tell me!"

"N-no, Erik."

"What happened?" He pauses. I wonder vaguely if he does not remember...

I am afraid of speaking out loud. "I missed you…"

He releases my wrists.

"What have you done?" he moans again, and drops his head into his hands.

Panic and confusion bursts into my stomach at his words, and I try to wriggle out of the covers to sit up. "What time is it?" I ask breathlessly. "What time is it?"

"It's still night," he tells me, his lovely voice muffled by his own hands. "It's not yet morning."

A little of my panic subsides, and I release the breath I have been holding in. Sense is beginning to catch up to me, and the onset of fear like I have never known is beginning to settle inside of me, strangling me, devouring me...

"Christine," he says, his utopian voice laced with angst and disgust. "_What happened?"_

"I—" my voice cracks out, but I can manage no further. Memories from last night press into my mind, and I did not stop them from overflowing my sense, causing me guilt for what I had done. My mouth falls open in disbelief and my hand trembles. "I-"

We sit together, absorbing our sin.

I touch his arm hesitatingly. "Erik, I never meant—"

He rips himself away, pacing violently in front of me. I can feel his temper like flames from an hearth. "You never meant for what? For this to happen? Did you get _carried away_, Christine? Or was it I whom you will claim enticed you! Did I force you? Are you to run back to your loving husband and cry for the wrong that have been done to you?" His eyes flash at me. "_You husband!_"

I begin to cry, my emotions going haywire. I did not want to be an adulterer one week into my marriage; I did not want to be a whore. I did not come down here with the intention of seducing Erik.

How could I explain it? Suddenly, it had felt right. I couldn't stop. I w_anted_ to share myself with him. I wanted to feel his skin against mine, I wanted his mouth on me, I wanted to make his breath catch. Looking back, I could not understand or describe any of the ways I had been feeling. And when he began to touch me, I had forgotten any ounce of regret that I should have known I would feel later. I only knew I wanted him to keep touching me- I had forgotten Raoul completely. And afterwards, I had only held onto him in the darkness, unable to see his face, and unable to confront my sin. I must have fallen asleep.

I claw at my face in shame. I w_as_ a whore!

"Erik," I whisper, my voice cracking. "I am sorry..."

"Yes, you are sorry," he says icily. "I would expect that sharing yourself with someone like me is the sorriest thing you could possibly have achieved in your life, Christine."

"No, no," I sob. "This is not- I should not have-"

"_You should not have_!" he says furiously. "How the regret drips off every syllable of your words!"

This was nothing like last night. Last night, we had not exchanged a single word. Last night was only movements, like the push and pull of a sight-read duet. His hands had been delicate, and he had touched me in places that I surely thought was sin, but somehow it did not feel like a sin. It felt... right. It felt like the Erik I knew, the one who had been singing to me, the one who had always been there for me.

"I do not regret it," I breathe without thinking.

"Oh, how you do!" Erik cries out. "You do!" And he throws himself next to me again, facing away from me, breathing heavily. It takes me a moment to realize he is crying - not the petty whines that I have produced, but deep, gasping bursts of air that he tries so desperately to hide.

My heart aches for him. This is not the way that anything should be right now. "Erik," I say softly, inching closer to him and laying my hand on his back. Beneath his shirt I feel his muscles tighten, and I cannot stop thinking about underneath those clothes, the way his skin looked when it was next to mine in the barely existent light, the way he trembled so.

"Why?" he says from tightly-clenched teeth. "You love Raoul… Why did you do this to me?"

"I did not come back to do this to you," I say pleadingly. "I swear, I came down just to see you, and I felt loved! And I just wanted more… I just felt really loved, for once, Erik! Is that so very wrong to want?"

He looks stoutly in the opposite direction while I cry next to him. "I can't imagine what that is like, to feel loved," he says bitterly. "I am so glad I was able to give you the love you wanted... Did you leave anything left to give to me?"

Last night had been a whirlwind. Perhaps, if we had only paused, just once… we would have come to our senses.

"You have always loved me, Erik," I say in a tiny voice. "How I know this! And yet I can give you no return love... but how I long to give you something, Erik, as you have given me. But I never planned it to be this. I only wanted to come down to be with you again. But I could not stop thinking about when I kissed you..." The words are hard to say. They break over my tongue like an open wound. "I could not stop thinking about the way I feel when I am around you."

"How do you feel?" he whispers desperately, finally turning to look at me. "How do you feel around me?"

"I feel something very deep," I reply automatically, putting my hand on my stomach. I watch his eyes flicker down and then snap back up. "I feel..." My silly mind tries to come up with some sort of word to accurately describe the mesmerizing pull, the intoxicating rush of feelings I receive when Erik is in my vicinity. "I feel... very strongly loved," I trail off pathetically.

"Your husband loves you," he says stiffly.

"I know," I murmur. "I love him too… but I was more comfortable with him before we were married. Now I feel…" I swallow convulsively. "It just feels silly…"

"Making love is something you do when you're married!" he snaps, his cold exterior back at once. "If you didn't want to do it, you shouldn't have been married!"

"You're right," I say softly.

He doesn't know what to make of that, and seems at a brief loss of words. "That could have been our wedding night," he suddenly says bluntly. "If you had chosen me. I would have loved you, Christine. You admit it yourself. And yet, you chose me, not because of lack of heart, but because of lack of beauty."

"I did not choose you for many reasons," I say quietly. "How unfair to pin it all upon the face you hide."

"The face I hide is the _cause_ of all your silly reasons," he says, but he does not sound angry anymore. "Ah Christine, I could have been so gentle! I would have loved you and you would not have felt silly. You would have felt right."

"I did not feel silly once with you."

"Because it felt right." Slowly, he has moved closer to me, his hand coming up to touch my face. Carefully, he pulls my curls back and runs his hand gently down my neck and to my collarbone. I close my eyes, half unwillingly, and fresh tears blossom under my eyelids. "You pull me to you, and I pull you to me. We were meant to be together, and you did not let us be. But look how you ache for me, Christine... as I ache for you."

He is getting carried away. His hands drops lower and slips inside my nightgown. I move unconsciously towards him, pressing myself against his arm, dipping my face into the crook of his shoulder as I feel his lips gently graze my exposed flesh. Squeezing my eyes shut, I whisper, "But you are no husband."

He stops. "Have I no say?" he says wickedly.

"You are a lover," I say back. "In your words, in your voice, and now in your hands. But you are no husband. We will never be man and wife. You and I cannot go to Sunday mass together. We cannot dine together at a cafe. You cannot take me out on your arm. We will never be together like that."

My eyes are still shut as I wait for the effect of my words, my whole body tensed and ready for some sort of violent attack that I know I deserve. But he is silent. I open my eyes to see him staring at me with glassy eyes as if he has not registered anything of what I have said.

"Did you... did you say _lover_?" he asks hoarsely.

I blink, unsure. "Listen to me," I say blankly, taking advantage of his silence. "I'm fine with Raoul. I like being married to him." Erik turns farther away from me, shuddering. "But everything changes at night. Night isn't supposed to be all light and happy. Nighttime is supposed to be beautiful—_you_ taught me that."

Still quiet, he turns to look at me, like he cannot keep his eyes off me for too long.

"I thought you would understand," I say helplessly.

He drops his hand. "Oh, Christine," he says softly. "You are so young, you are innocent, you do not understand… This is so wrong…" His eyes fill with an emotion I cannot understand, and he gently uncurls my fingers from the bedcovers. "So wrong." Without moving from the bed, he lays his lips on mine, a simple expression of physical love. There is certain air between us that makes me breathe into him, filling my chest with a warm feeling as I part my lips in contentment.

Perhaps we should not have made love. Perhaps I should not have allowed him to disrobe me, guiltily enjoying the fevered intake of breath he had delivered at the sight of me- that I had not felt embarrassed or unnatural at all as he gazed upon me. Perhaps I should not have ran my finger down the length of his chest, my fingers stroking the crease of his arm. Perhaps I should not have kept my lips against his as he entered inside me and stopped breathing, clutching me to him as if he had never ever understood what this moment was about until he was right inside of it- as if I had never experienced it, although truthfully, I had not... not like this. Perhaps none of that should have happened.

Perhaps we should have only kissed.

I can hardly bring myself to speak, but I eventually say in a weakened voice, "I must go back."

He pulls away, clutching my wrist, and for a moment I think he is not going to let me leave.

But then he relaxes and releases me. "Yes, of course," he murmurs. "You must go. You must leave your lover and return to your husband."

I do not budge.

My heart is breaking. I fell like there is two halves of me I am trying to reconcile into one being. It's painful, and I'm so confused. How can I possibly leave him again like this, so suddenly? We endured oceans of hurt, only for me to come down here, use him, and then leave again…

I am blinded with uncertain tears and the desperate need to make him understand. "Erik, I must know that you do not think I just used you—"

"You did!" he interrupts; his voice is firm and powerful in the small room, and I cower from it, even after all of this. "You did! You used me because you _knew_ I would want you, no matter what—if even if you were married! You used me when you lacked the passion you craved with your husband. You used me because you know I will always be here for you, unable to deny you."

"No," I say honestly. "I came back because I care for you."

"You care for me," he repeats thoughtfully. "Even after you have shared with me the most intimate of human relations - after you have given yourself to me and allowed me to know your secrets, you still cannot say you love me?"

He looks at me and I can't bear to look at him. I look away.

"I thought I could have everything," he continues mournfully. "You could have given everything to me, but instead you left, you left… and now you come back to give me everything, only to take it away again."

"Erik—"

"I will never learn."

"Erik, please—"

He silences me with the misery in his dark, golden eyes.

"As I said last night," he said quietly. "I would take it again. One night of heaven, just to feel loved. Even if it was fake."

"It was not fake!" I burst out, but he is past listening to me, I can tell. Instead, I rise and place my hand under his chin. "I will come back," I promise in a hushed voice. I keep my hand on his jaw, not wanting to remove it. He feels differently to me now- much more real. I crave that intimacy with him again already.

He laughs. "Yes, by all means, come back here only to fulfill your young sexual appetite! And I, like a fool, will fall for them every time. And I will. Every damn time." He sighs, and his voice grows heavy. "I will fall for you every time. You should go now."

I climb awkwardly out of bed in my underclothes. The black wrinkly dress sits innocently in a pile on the floor, and I snatch it up and pull it on, watching him nervously out of the corner of my eye. I grow flustered, unable to pull the dress on properly, and I struggle with it for a moment before he sighs again and comes to help me. His hands linger on my skin, his breath tickling my neck. I shiver as he stares longingly at me.

"I love you," he says, his indefectible voice drowning me. "Nothing can change that."

It is impossible to look away from those eyes.

"I will come back," I repeat.

Nearly a half hour later, the sun is just beginning to rise. I carefully open the door to the summer house, being as quiet as possible as I go to my closet and pull down a soft green dressing gown. I take off the black dress and throw it into the corner—I never want to see it again.

The dressing gown safely on, I gently pad upstairs. Raoul is sleeping, but his eyes flutter open as I try to close the door.

"Christine," he says groggily, sitting up. His chestnut hair is tousled and I smile at the image. "I called for you, but you never answered last night. You could have come up here… Did you get sleep?"

"I slept downstairs. I didn't want to disturb you," I say, lightly patting his shoulders. His shoulders do not feel like Erik's. "Are you feeling better?"

"Yes, I'll come down for breakfast." He sits up. "I'm so sorry, I don't know what happened. Perhaps it was something I ate?"

"It is still early," I say. "You can stay in bed for a while longer, and then I'd be happy to bring you something up."

"No, no," he protests. "I want to come down to be with you. Let me dress."

"Then I will go down and start some porridge," I offer, turning to leave.

He grabs my sleeve as I turn. "Christine," he says. "Thank you for being so concerned." He smiles. "You are a good wife. You are lovely when you are taking care of me. I love you so much."

I glance up at the sun sparkling weakly through the window. It is a new day. A new, bright day to be loved by my husband.

I smile warmly at him. "I do too, Raoul." I say sweetly. "Always."

_._


	4. Chapter 4

Raoul must still be feeling ill, for he still rests throughout the day and falls asleep early in the evening on the small sofa in the den. I drag him upstairs while he stumbles awake in front of me, and place him comfortably in bed. We snuggle as he dozes, and I too finally fall asleep. It is peaceful and sweet. I feel as though I have finally found a friend in my life.

In the morning, we wake together and play innocently in bed. He tickles me, I push him away, and we giggle a lot before going down to eat muffins for breakfast.

I do not think of Erik at all.

That night, however, he takes me into the study where there is an old phonoautogram. "I want you to dance with me," he says passionately, drawing me in close to him and smiling at me.

Anticipation—or dread?—curls inside my stomach. My hair is not up and I am not even wearing a pretty gown… Why does he want to dance with me?

"I- I am not a very good dancer," I say stupidly. My brain has gone oddly fuzzy.

Raoul lets out a hearty laugh. "You are very funny. Come, my little ballerina. Show me all your finest moves. It is music for you."

This is a kind of intrusion that I cannot forgive. I do not want Raoul's music.

"I don't want to dance," I say blankly, trying vainly to pull away from him without being too obvious. "Not—not with music."

He hesitates, but his reply has no hint of irritation. "No music. That is fine. I understand. Will you still dance with me?"

He is asking so nicely and he is so handsome in his dark blue buttoned shirt. The dim light from the kitchen reflects in his eyes. I am so in love with the way he looks at me, with the way he is so very kind to me. Not many people were kind to me after Papa died. I must be a horrible person to consider turning down a dance with my husband.

We mostly sway together in the small room, the lack of music providing us with no common tempo. It is slow… I try to imagine we are at our wedding, where everything was laughter and happiness, and people were smiling and Raoul was smiling… Now he is not smiling, and he is close to me, and his lips keep pressing on my face, and I can't breathe…

I think he is trying to be romantic as he pulls on my dress to lead me upstairs. I cannot tell, because there is no light. I am stumbling blindly in the dark. As I am exposed, I tremble.

"I'm cold," I whisper.

Instantly, he is over me, his hands in my hair. "I'll warm you," he says, and he is everywhere, above me, around me, inside me…

It is not quite as uncomfortable anymore, only rather boring. I thought it would be much more exciting. I thought it would be life-altering. That is what the girls at the Opera always said. The feelings they spoke of were pleasurable, and I have felt nothing with Raoul. I thought it would make me feel wonderful. But all I feel is guilt. This is naughty, naughty, naughty, and I should not be doing this with my good husband…

He kisses my eyelids so lovingly. I try to smile at him, but it feels so incredibly dramatic. I am no one. I feel like no one, and I do not know why. I do not feel special or loved, or like I am the only woman in the world. There are millions of women in the world, and are they all doing this with their husbands? How do they look at them the same in the morning? How do they meet the eyes of other people? How does this love work?

Prying his sticky skin away from me, I turn and wonder if I am perhaps just too young and immature to appreciate it. Maybe I was not ready for marriage if the mere thought of marital relations makes me blush and gag.

He softly brushes my hair back. "You are so quiet," he says. "I try…"

I do not want to talk about such things with Raoul."No, no," I say, with absolutely no idea what I am denying. "I am just trying to relax."

"I don't want to relax," he says, and he presses his wet lips to my ear. It makes a funny sucking sound. I do not understand how this is supposed to be romantic. It only feels awkward, and I feel embarrassed for him.

"But I understand," he continues. "You are young, and a new bride. I love you so much. And we can learn together."

I feel that maybe I should put my arms around him, but I don't know where to touch. Where do you touch a naked man?

In the back of my mind, I am thinking that not all love is like this. There _is_ love like the love woven into the chords of the opera I know so well. There are those feelings that the girls at the Opera always whispered about. And it feels too good… it must be too bad.

But _he _has never been deterred by doing anything that is considered wrong. _He_ would gladly partake in anything I asked of him.

In the back of my mind, I know I cannot—_should _not—compare.

But... Erik's lips were thinner than Raoul's, and even though Raoul's are very gentle until the end, Erik's were feather light and travelled, skimming my skin and making me tingle. Raoul only made my skin damp, almost uncomfortable when it was exposed to fresh air, but Erik touched parts on my arm and I felt it travel into my stomach, like I had missed a step going downstairs. Raoul was thicker in the shoulders and in the waist, but it is soft and almost heavy; Erik is so thin and so hard, so tense against every inch of my body surface.

And with Erik, his hands had coaxed me to a sensation that was terrifying and exciting—he had done things that would make me blush in the light. But we didn't need the light. And where Raoul is perfectly content to be patient through the years and learn together, Erik was desperate—driven to the point of physical starvation and need from years of no human contact, and months and months of desiring me like no other—the frenzy had been exhilarating. What I thought I would fear, I enjoyed- was that what all the girls at the Opera spoke about?

There must be some sort of block in my mind, that allows me to think about these things so rationally and calmly. I am committing the most vile of sins, but as long as I do not take a second to consider it, I can continue brushing it aside whenever it makes its appearance in the contours of my hidden thoughts.

But I chose Raoul because of the lack of response I felt with him. Is that not what love it? Tolerance of another? Whenever Erik interacted with me, I felt a thrill of fear, a jolt of panic, an inability to breathe properly; when Raoul speaks to me, I feel nothing at all. When he puts his hands on me, I do not jump, I do not feel heat rise into my face when he enters a room. Erik caused all those confusing feelings deep inside of me. Raoul is simple and gentle and very very safe.

It is silly, for I have never questioned whether or not I made the right decision. But I cannot stop thinking about the way Erik's fingers felt on my skin.

Raoul is massaging my back, and it feels nice, but I am still cold. He makes no comment as I rise and put on my nightclothes. "Are you still feeling ill?" I ask kindly.

"No," he says, looking down at his pillows.

I do not like looking at Raoul when he is naked; it feels wrong, like I am intruding on something private. But when he averts his eyes from me, I feel a sting of inferiority. Why should he not want to look at me? Erik had stared at me as though he might never see me again.

"I am going to go get some water," I say quietly, pulling on my dressing gown.

"Christine?" Raoul says as I turn towards the door. I look back at him, expectantly:

"Yes, Raoul?"

He tilts his head to the side, his handsome eyes unreadable. "You look so very pretty."

"Thank you," I say automatically, turning away from him.

The words so strange on his lips. Two nights ago, in Erik's arms, I felt tragically beautiful compared to who was holding me. Tonight I do not feel pretty. I feel as though I am dying.


End file.
